


Show Up in Shining Colors

by elithewho



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, Masturbation, Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sex Pollen, Sharing a Bed, Undercover as Married, Undercover as a Couple, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-30
Updated: 2017-04-30
Packaged: 2018-10-25 20:50:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10772184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elithewho/pseuds/elithewho
Summary: Graves was still frowning. He hadn’t done undercover in ages and Picquery seemed to be moving this along rather quickly. He imagined that she had jumped at the opportunity to get him out of the MACUSA offices without actually firing him. With an amateur of all people. He caught Queenie’s eye and she grinned at him. He fought the blush he was certain was rising in his cheeks and flipped through the file on Starkweather once again. This was not going to be fun.





	Show Up in Shining Colors

**Author's Note:**

> My Greenie feels are apparently insatiable. And who doesn't love the undercover marrieds trope?? Thanks to Morgan for the beta and encouragement as always <3
> 
>    
> Stay in the game  
> Just try to play through the pain  
> Like a fighter who's been told it's finally time for him to quit  
> Show up in shining colors  
> And then stand there and get hit
> 
>  
> 
> \- The Mountain Goats, "Spent Gladiator 2"

Whatever Graves had expected his first real job post-Grindelwald to be, it hadn’t been this. He had endured the humiliation of being stuck on desk duty for weeks before Picquery finally relented and told him he had an assignment. He’d been pleased. The daily grind of paperwork while nearly everyone he spoke to looked at him like his face might shift to Grindelwald’s at any moment was slowly driving him insane.

Picquery called him to her office and dropped a folder of parchment on her desk. “Ptolemy Starkweather,” she announced as Graves leafed curiously through the file. “He’s running illegal love potions out of honeymoon resorts.”

Graves stared at her for a moment before speaking. “Illegal potion-running? That’s it?”

Picquery gave him a look as if to say, _What do you expect?_ “You’ll need to go undercover, gain his trust, find his supplier,” she said.

“This is work for a junior auror,” Graves said, trying not to sound petulant and failing.

“Several people have been fatally poisoned already, Graves,” she said sternly and Graves didn’t respond. It figured that she’d want him out of the way.

Never before had he been bothered by the cool, professional relationship he maintained with his colleagues. He was the boss to most of them, after all. But the attitude since his return to work after the Grindelwald incident could only be described as hostile. He heard whispers and titters in his wake; people would stare at him and then quickly look away; younger employees would actually run from him if he got too close to them in the hallways. They made him feel diseased. Worst of all, perhaps, was Picquery keeping him on desk duty.

Graves’s brooding was interrupted by a knock on the door, and Picquery called for the visitor to enter. It was Queenie Goldstein, the witch who delivered coffee and Tina Goldstein’s sister. She wasn’t bearing her usual tray of steaming mugs and he had to wonder what she was doing there.

“Graves, meet your wife,” Picquery said with a smile.

He looked up at her in what must have been comical alarm.

“It’s a honeymoon resort, remember? You need a wife to blend in and Starkweather is already familiar with all the female aurors,” she explained.

Graves felt his fingers tighten around the file in his hand. Queenie was beaming, wearing a dress of cream silk, her hair bright gold in the magic lamps that floated over their heads.

“But she isn’t an auror,” he said softly.

“That’s what I said!” piped up Queenie.

“But she is a legilimens,” Picquery said smoothly. “Apparently.”

Queenie looked a little embarrassed. “Teenie suggested me,” she said. “She had to talk me into it.”

“You’ll do fine,” said Picquery with an encouraging smile. “Now, there’s a suite booked at the resort and you’ll need to attend the nightly dinners where Starkweather will surely be. It’s all there in the file.”

Graves was still frowning. He hadn’t done undercover in ages and Picquery seemed to be moving this along rather quickly. He imagined that she had jumped at the opportunity to get him out of the MACUSA offices without actually firing him. With an amateur of all people. He caught Queenie’s eye and she grinned at him. He fought the blush he was certain was rising in his cheeks and flipped through the file on Starkweather once again. This was not going to be fun.

 

~~~

 

Percival’s earliest memory was of hurting himself while playing alone in the nursery. He must have been three or four, and he’d tripped over his own feet, falling on his face in the clumsy way of toddlers. He wasn’t badly hurt, but cried anyway. He had cried for what felt like hours and no one had come. Over the years, he learned not to cry at all. It would be ignored, or worse, punished.

His mother, Deirdre, had instilled in him a stoic independence that she probably hadn’t necessarily intended. Her philosophy was that children should be seen and not heard. The etiquette classes had started early, along with tutoring in math, history and languages. Percival was expected to conduct himself like a proper Graves, with poise and well-groomed elegance. He learned slowly that she expected a lot from him, by nature of his lineage, and no matter how hard he tried, how much his etiquette tutor beat his knuckles or the back of his legs with a wooden ruler for his childlike clumsiness, the best he could hope to get from his mother was to be determined _adequate enough._ From his father, even that was impossible to achieve. Something was always wrong with what Percival managed to accomplish - even his most flawless Latin translations were sniffed at, or some small critique about his penmanship crushed whatever hope Percival had foolishly fostered. And still, he tried. He became almost desperate for his father’s approval, some acknowledgement of how very hard he tried.

When he entered Ilvermorny, his mother hadn’t spoken much of academics. She made vague comments about comporting himself properly and to only associate with “the right sort” of people. He knew that meant the children of blue-blooded old families like their own and certainly not children with non-magical parents. His father had barely even acknowledged his departure. As it turned out, Deirdre hadn’t needed to worry. Percival may have been able to conjugate every Latin verb and recite math quotients from memory but making friends was beyond him. He’d never been allowed to socialize with anyone his own age until that moment, and being suddenly surrounded with hundreds of 11-year-olds was terrifying. So he stuck to what he was used to: burying his head in a book.

He was beloved by the professors for being polite, quiet and studious. This did not endear him to the other students, however, and soon he was the target of taunts and ridicule which further isolated him. He was not athletic, which seemed to deeply disappoint his father. Gareth Graves had grown rather portly in his later years, so his insistence that his son become a great Quidditch player was baffling to Percival. He did not enjoy flying and found it utterly impossible to hold a ball for more than a few seconds. His incompetence on the field led to more bullying, and he soon heard it from his father. During the school year, this criticism was filtered through his mother, who only seemed to write to convey her husband’s disappointment and to share gossip about people Percival didn’t care about.

When he went home for holidays, Gareth would berate his laziness and find a dozen or more things to criticize. Percival would sometimes try to defend himself, offering his stellar grades and glowing comments from his professors, but such things were trivial to his father. The rest of his holidays were spent with his mother, attending Mass and luncheons with other society witches that Percival found deadly dull. The older he grew the more Deirdre began planning in earnest for his nuptials. Of course, Percival could barely even talk to the girls at school. But that didn’t matter to Deirdre, who expecting him to pursue an arranged match like she had been forced to endure. Or arranged in all but name. The luncheons were soon accompanied by the daughters of his mother’s friends, many of whom Percival did not even know from school because they attended prestigious foreign institutions. Since Percival hardly spoke to them and spent the entire time staring into his tea, these forced interactions did not engender the connection that Deirdre had hoped to foster. Percival, reared without proper social skills for too much of his life, was left flailing.

 

~~~

 

There was another reason he did not want to go undercover to an explicitly romantic destination with Queenie Goldstein in particular, but he hadn’t let himself admit it. In the weeks following his return, the entire MACUSA office had treated him like a poisonous viper that should be avoided at all costs. Except Queenie.

He hadn’t even known her name when she knocked on his office door one afternoon, levitating a tray of coffee and accoutrements and wearing a cheerful smile.

“I thought you might want something to perk you up,” she’d said brightly.

Graves hadn’t responded, confused by her sudden appearance. But she had only continued as if he had acknowledged her politely. She set the coffee on his desk and asked how he liked it. He muttered his response as the pitcher of cream poured itself into the mug and the sugar cubes jumped in after.

“It’s good to have you back, Mr. Graves,” she said sincerely and that made him blush stupidly. It shouldn’t have, but the mere fact that someone was pleased to see him was something.

“Thank you,” he said, and she bustled out.

Queenie had come to bring him coffee every day for the next week. She’d even chatted with him a bit, seemingly not bothered with the fact that he hardly responded. He figured out she was a legilimens rather quickly and kept his occlumency shield as firm as he could. Not that he had any state secrets she might accidentally overhear, but he told himself it was better to be safe than sorry.

Besides, Graves had always been a very private person. And perhaps she would overhear the way he admired her legs or the fit of her dress or how pretty she looked when she smiled. He was sure that she heard those things every day from the minds of passing men but Graves would rather not be made to feel so vulnerable by having his private thoughts poured over by a woman he found attractive.

Yet he couldn’t seem to ask her to leave him be. The truth was he enjoyed her company and maybe that was just because he’d been alone for too long. He thought he could handle a few minutes of her presence on a daily basis and he would be fine. But now he would be expected to spend every day with her, working closely with her, and worst of all, pretending to be newlyweds with her.

Queenie, bubbly as ever, was ignorant of his growing dread. Dropping by his office as usual, the only sign of anything out of the ordinary was how she lingered to chatter away about what they would tell people about their relationship.

“Obviously we met at work. Carried on a secret affair. But then you took me on a boat ride in Central Park and proposed under a willow tree, it was terribly romantic…”

Graves let her carry on, glad that she was imaginative enough to come up with something believable.

“Good thing I’m not already married,” Queenie said with a small sigh, fiddling with his collection of quills. “There's only been one guy I would've married, but…”

She trailed off into silence and Graves hoped the conversation would end there and she wouldn’t keep talking about personal things, the last subject Graves ever wanted to talk about.

“You ever been married?” she asked him instead and Graves frowned.

“No,” he said. “I haven’t.”

He left it at that, hoping his tone was final enough so that she wouldn’t pry. She kept looking at him though, her bright eyes wide and curious and he had to look away.

 

~~~

 

In the years following his graduation from Ilvermorny, Percival was glad for the distraction of work. He was good at it; the long hours and discipline suited him fine. He found the social aspects of his job most challenging, but even there he managed to improve. He wasn’t making friends exactly, as he was dour and taciturn as ever and did not like going drinking with the other young men, but he found it easier to interact professionally with his colleagues. There were well-defined rules and structure, and he was able to keep his personal life, scant as it was, to himself.

His job going well, his mother’s insistence he find a wife and settle down reached new heights. The luncheons continued, torturous in the extreme. He found the society witches his mother foisted on him to be boring and insipid, and they didn’t seem particularly impressed with him either.

One Saturday in May, Percival met Igraine Byrne. The Byrnes were a family of blue-bloods almost as old as the Graveses. But Igraine was different from the other women Deirdre considered acceptable matches. She talked loudly and almost crudely instead of staying coquettishly silent. She liked to make up clever, if cruel, nicknames for people, and her mother was forever telling her to shush and act like a lady. And she was intelligent. She could carry on a conversation about Percival’s work without acting bored or disinterested. She didn’t seem to care what anyone thought of her and Percival liked that about her. She was pretty - not stunning, but the confident way she carried herself, the glint of mischief in her eye, made her more attractive than any of the doll-faced beauties who had stared at him blankly whenever he tried to engage them in conversation.

He began courting her in earnest. His mother was not thrilled with Igraine’s tendency to uncouth behavior but she was rich and her family was old so she was happy. She began planning the wedding immediately, even before an engagement was official. She had the old nursery refurbished and was apparently delighted at the possibility of grandchildren. Percival found this odd as she had been barely around for his own infancy, letting his various nannies raise him before tossing him off to school.

His engagement to Igraine was formal and deeply chaste. She allowed him to kiss her a few times, though her chaperone was never far off. But, most of all, she liked to talk and Percival liked to listen. She was witty, if occasionally wicked, and prone to gossip. Percival had never imagined she would talk about him the way she talked about everyone else in her life.

One day, the wedding still months away, Percival went to visit her at her family’s townhouse. He hadn’t known at the time that her parents were away or that she’d be unaccompanied by a chaperone, but he would not have expected what he found. Igraine was clad only in a robe and she seemed surprised to see him.

“I thought perhaps we could go for a walk…” Percival began, when he was interrupted by a male voice from behind her.

“Darling, I can’t find my shoes!”

The look on Igraine’s face told him everything he needed to know. She did not look embarrassed, but she did look almost amused. “What did you expect, Percival? I’m not a nun.”

The news of their broken engagement seemed to hurt his mother like a physical blow. She cried for hours and vowed to never forgive him. And she was right. Up until her death, she held this slight against him. Percival, however, didn’t feel much of anything. He was disappointed, a little hurt, but he discovered he was not in love with Igraine at all. In fact, he barely knew her. On their very last meeting, over tea in his family’s sitting room, she expressed surprise that he hadn’t publicly exposed the reason for their split. She obviously expected him to smear her reputation, for revenge or whatever else.

“It’s like you don’t know me at all,” he said sadly. Igraine only laughed.

 

~~~

 

At 3:45PM on the day they were to travel to the resort in Hawaii, Queenie met him at his place wearing a pink dress, white gloves and matching hat, a long string of pearls around her neck. She clutched a bright pink suitcase in one hand.

“I hope you packed your swimming costume,” she said brightly. Their portkey was scheduled for 4PM.

“Yes, I have everything we’ll need,” he said, like a portable cauldron and potions lab, as well as other tools of the auror trade.

The portkey, an old tin can, took them from the drab greyness of an overcast New York day to the blinding brightness and warmth of Hawaii. It was suddenly morning again and the sky was such a brilliant blue that Graves’s eyes hurt a bit to look at it. The honeymoon resort where they’d be staying was all wizard-run and Queenie gasped in delight at the small, magic palm trees in the lobby, swaying and sparkling in a non-existent breeze. She was also delighted by the cluster of native Hawaiians who came to greet them, laying magical leis around their necks. Graves tried to look pleased. He was supposed to be on his honeymoon, after all.

Graves made his way to the front desk to check in. The reservation was under their own names as Starkweather was quite familiar with aurors at MACUSA but would have found it rather suspicious that two aurors were honeymooning at the same resort where he peddled his illegal potions. A whirlwind romance between the Director of Magical Security and the coffee witch would be less suspicious, Picquery assured him. Graves was sure she was right, but he was still annoyed. He’d have to play the corrupt auror to get Starkweather to lead him to his source.

After checking in, they were led to their suite. Queenie exclaimed over the décor and the large windows that could be thrown open to let in the warm breeze while Graves examined their surroundings. There was only one bed. Well, of course, it was a honeymoon suite. Still, he felt his cheeks heat up. The bed was sprinkled with magical flower petals and a bouquet of bright orchids sat on the nightstand beside a bottle of champagne.

“Oh, this'll be fun!” Queenie enthused, unlatching the window to let the room fill with ocean-scented air.

“We’ve got a job to do,” Graves reminded her. “We’re not here on vacation.”

“Obviously, but we’re supposed to be _pretending_ to have fun, so why not have some actual fun in the process?”

“How strong is your legilimency?” Graves asked her instead, hoping to turn the conversation - and his own mind - away from any thoughts of _fun._

“I can read most anyone's thoughts without them noticing,” she said offhandedly, still admiring the view. “Unless they know I’m a legilimens, that is.”

“Well, try not to be too obvious,” he insisted and Queenie actually looked over her shoulder just to roll her eyes at him.

“Yes, I understand the necessity for stealth, Mr. Graves,” she said with some annoyance, reminding him of her sister for a brief second until she perked up. “Oh, I should be calling you Percival!”

“I suppose so.”

“But not Percy, right?” she said with a cheeky grin.

Graves frowned. During his first year at Ilvermorny, a professor had tried to call him Percy and he had refused to respond to it.

“It’s so lovely out! We have to go explore!”

Graves concurred, but only because it would mean scoping out their surroundings. He’d purchased a new wardrobe for the assignment in order to help him blend in. While he preferred heavy fabrics, such an outfit would look out of place at this tropical resort. He’d gotten several suits tailored in light colors, khaki and white, as well as new ties, new shoes, and a few new hats. He went to the restroom to don his new white suit and pale blue tie, disliking the general effect. He missed his usual wardrobe of black and dark gray, but when he emerged, Queenie gave him an exaggerated whistle.

“Looking good, hubby!” she said, and Graves adjusted his tie a bit self-consciously.

She slipped her arm through his and they were off to explore the resort, Queenie keeping a steady commentary going the whole time. The beach had never been one of Percival’s favorite places. He’d never been taken as a child and saw no reason to visit as an adult, and now he found the sand annoying to walk on and the sun too bright. But he had to admit it was pretty. He was also a bit distracted by how lovely Queenie looked in the sunshine, her golden curls shining as she laughed. When warm breezes from over the water nearly blew both their hats off, Graves couldn’t help but notice the way the wind made her dress fit snugly on her body.

All in all, Graves was happy to walk away from the ocean’s edge. They made their way back to the hotel and stopped for lunch in the café. While being seated, Graves recognized Ptolemy Starkweather sitting with a group of men and women by the window. The man was dressed in a stylish, powder blue suit, his shoes gleaming with a high shine. He was tall, thin, black hair slicked to his skull with a severe part. He observed them carefully over the rim of his menu, pretending to be reading the daily specials.

“It’s Starkweather,” he told Queenie in a low voice. “By the window.”

To her credit, Queenie did not turn around. She did make a show of dropping her glove so she needed to turn towards them to retrieve it. Graves was pleased with her ingenuity.

Over the course of lunch, while dining on fresh oysters and seared tuna, Graves believed Starkweather took notice of him. Careful not to react, Graves continued his pleasant conversation with Queenie, but he was sure he saw the man turn his head to stare at him and lean over to his colleagues to whisper obviously to them.

For the time being, Graves would not approach him. With any luck, Starkweather would be the first to make contact. Perhaps he was eager to try and recruit a high-ranking auror who he perceived as corrupt.

He walked Queenie back to their room and began assembling a report. He’d need to document his every movement and interaction with Starkweather. Queenie, who had been reading a book by the window, glanced over at him. He explained what he was doing without being asked, since she was clearly curious.

“That makes sense,” she said. “Better than keeping it all in your head.”

Graves nodded, thinking she might make an excellent partner after all. She was proving to be not only imaginative, but stealthy and well-composed.

After sunset had descended over the ocean, spilling brilliant orange and red and purple on the glittering water, they prepared for dinner. Graves was hoping Starkweather would approach him or at least he could make some sort of contact. He changed into one of his nicer suits and then waited while Queenie got ready. She took a bit longer than him and emerged in a glittering, feathery confection with a very low neckline. Almost scandalously low, but Queenie managed to look classy. It was dusky rose, decorated with sequins and she’d done something to her hair to make it glitter too. Her eyes were rimmed in kohl and her lips were soft pink and Graves swallowed thickly, trying not to stare.

“You look lovely,” he managed to say without stuttering like he had as a young man when something made him nervous.

Queenie grinned. “So do you, honey,” she said, letting him take her arm again.

Dinner was held in the grand ballroom, a space decorated with more magical palms, brightly-colored streamers, and more flowers than Graves had ever seen in one place. They were led to a large table occupied by other honeymooning couples and Queenie was quick to introduce them both.

As they had discussed, Queenie immediately regaled the other couples with the tale of their fake romance, embellishing it with more details than ever before. “We were under one of the willow trees by the lake and he’d bought me a bouquet of sunflowers and then he just took out this ring, I was so surprised,” she was saying, the diamond ring MACUSA had provided glittering as she took a sip of the blue coconut concoction she had ordered.

The other couples were enraptured, and Graves mostly let Queenie spin the tale while he held her hand and endeavored to sell his commitment to her with a great deal of doting smiles. All the while he covertly scanned the room, on the lookout for Starkweather. He found him at last, his arm around a young witch in a glittering blue dress.

Graves did not acknowledge him, focusing on his meal of kalua pork and providing a few details to Queenie’s tale of romance to make it more believable. Soon, Queenie was telling jokes that had the whole table howling, though it didn't hurt that the drinks kept flowing and their companions grew rowdier. There was a lull in the conversation as dessert arrived - shaved ice with pineapple syrup. Queenie grabbed his hand under the table.

“Dance with me,” she said, eyes twinkling as she added, “Starkweather just took his girl to the dancefloor.”

Surprised, Graves glanced over at the area filled with couples swaying to the live music. He did indeed recognize Starkweather, and his date’s blue dress. He hadn’t even noticed him leaving his seat and was impressed with Queenie’s eye.

He took her hand gallantly and they made their way to dancefloor. Graves slipped a hand around her waist, pulling her just close enough to make it seem natural. He hadn’t danced with someone in ages, but it all seemed to come back to him easily enough. He positioned them so that he could observe Starkweather and his partner without making it seem too obvious.

“You’re a good dancer,” Queenie murmured, sounding surprised.

Graves merely nodded. As a child, he had learned at his mother’s insistence. He had never enjoyed the social aspects of dancing, but he had learned nonetheless.

Conducting surveillance while moving about the floor should've been simple enough, but it was distracting having Queenie so close. It didn’t help that he’d consumed several pineapple cocktails that were stronger than they seemed despite such a fruity flavor. Queenie was quite a good dancer herself, which didn’t surprise him. He looked down at her, at her pale face bathed in the soft blue light that twirled over the dancefloor. Her eyes glittered as she looked into his, and Graves could feel the hand holding hers begin to sweat minutely.

“If we get closer, I could read him,” Queenie muttered.

It took a moment to realize what she was talking about. Graves berated himself internally. How stupid of him to get distracted enough to forget what they were supposed to be doing. At least Queenie still had sense. He began weaving closer through the sea of couples, trying to make it look like natural meandering. When there was only one couple between them, Graves stopped, keeping his back to Starkweather now. Queenie gave no indication that she was reading his mind, but he continued to sway, trying not to notice how she seemed to get closer and closer, until her body was practically pressing against his. After a few songs, Queenie indicated that they should stop and Graves followed her back to their table.

When he went to sit down, Queenie did not sit in her own seat. Instead, she sat on his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck to steady herself. Alarmed, Graves’s hands immediately went to her waist to keep her from sliding off. Queenie leaned in, her mouth right next to his ear.

“He knows who you are,” she whispered and despite the context of the words, Graves shivered. “He’s wondering how he could sound you out, if you’d be interested in buying off him.”

“That’s good,” Graves muttered. “That’s really good.”

Queenie was still in his lap. He swallowed thickly, body reacting to her closeness without his consent. Her breasts, barely contained by the sequined silk of her dress, pressed against his chest. When Queenie giggled he could feel it in her entire body.

“See, I told you we could still have fun,” she muttered.

All Graves could do was smile, playing the part of the besotted newlywed. It seemed only natural to lean in and nuzzle her neck. It was just to make their relationship more believable, he told himself, but he could swear he felt Queenie shiver too.

“There’s still dessert,” he said a little louder, gently nudging her off his lap. If she sat there any longer, she would notice the embarrassing bulge in his trousers and he simply couldn’t bear it.

“We can have another dessert later tonight, sweetie,” she said playfully and Graves blushed. He knew it was for the benefit of their tablemates, but he couldn’t stop himself from imagining how that would play out if they really were on their honeymoon. He could feel the color in his cheeks and really hoped that his occlumency shield was keeping Queenie from seeing the things he was picturing.

Their pineapple shaved ice had been spelled so it wouldn’t melt and Graves was grateful for the coldness when he felt so feverish. Queenie still sat close to him, her small hand high up on his thigh as her shaved ice turned her lips even pinker.

Afterwards, there were several more rounds of drinks until Graves insisted they retire, despite the fact that Queenie was entertaining the table with stories again.

“Oh, go on, you two,” said one of their companions. “They can barely keep their hands off each other.” She gave a pointed look to her own husband.

Blushing, Graves escorted Queenie back to their room, trying to ignore how closely she leaned against him.

“Wasn’t that fun?” Queenie sighed dreamily, toeing off her shoes. “I think we have a better relationship than some of those couples, and we’re not even for real!”

“You were excellent,” Graves told her sincerely. “Your surveillance skills are better than some aurors'.”

“Well, it helps that I can read minds,” she said, waving her hand a bit dismissively.

“I’m serious,” Graves insisted. “Starkweather had no idea we were watching him.”

Queenie looked a little bashful at his sincere praise. She was still very close to him. Graves cast his eyes around the room, gaze falling on the small couch in the sitting area of their suite. “I can sleep there and you can have the bed.”

“Oh, don’t be silly!” she said immediately. “The bed is big enough for both of us.”

“But –“

“I don’t want to hear it!” she said, almost sternly. “I won’t have you sleep on a tiny couch out of some misplaced sense of honor. We’re both sleeping in the bed.”

Graves finally consented, seeing no point in arguing with her. Still, he wasn’t sure how he’d survive the night with her so close. He disappeared into the bathroom to change into his nightclothes, which he'd had to purchase specifically for the assignment as well. In the comfort of his own home, Graves slept naked. It was convenient and comfortable and he never shared his bed with anyone anyway. He was nervously fiddling with the buttons on his new black pajamas when he re-entered the bedroom to find Queenie taking off her robe.

She was wearing – well, it was an article of clothing, he was sure of that much. It was lacy and pink and made of so little fabric it might have been made from a roll of bandages. Tiny straps held it on her delicate shoulders and the one-piece garment barely covered her behind, clinging to her derriere as she turned around to pull back the covers.

Graves felt the heat in his cheeks extend down his chest. He'd been dreading trying to sleep next to her without getting a humiliating erection, but he hadn’t considered what Queenie would wear to bed. She gave him a slightly embarrassed smile.

“Hope you don’t mind,” she said sweetly. “It’s what I’d normally wear to bed, after all.”

Graves tried not to imagine her slipping between the sheets of her own bed, wearing nothing but a few scraps of silk. “It’s fine,” he said gruffly, pulling back the covers on his side and climbing in.

He waved his wand at the flower petals scattered over the bedspread, charmed to stay fresh eternally. They gathered together and deposited themselves in a bowl in the sitting area before he set his wand on the nearby nightstand.

“Goodnight, Percival,” Queenie said softly. _“Nox.”_

The lights winked out and Graves was surrounded by comforting darkness. The bed was large enough so that they could sleep comfortably with plenty of space, but Graves still knew Queenie was beside him, sighing softly and shifting around as she attempted to get comfortable. The image of her in that tiny number was burned into his retinas. He turned over restlessly, his cock growing hard against his thigh. He wasn’t sure how he would survive this assignment.

 

 

_Queenie was sitting on his father’s desk. She was wearing the glittering pink dress from dinner, but it was shorter, the neckline even lower, her breasts nearly falling out. Graves kneeled before her, wanting to touch her desperately, but he couldn’t seem to make himself do it. He looked up at her, her blonde hair glittering like a crown, her lips seductively red and parted. He was so hard it was painful and he pressed the heel of his hand against his cock. The pressure only made it worse and he moaned._

_“You’re a man now, Percival, and you should act like it,” she said, voice low and husky, uncrossing her legs._

_He groaned desperately, pressing his hot face to the smooth skin of her inner thigh. He felt her hand in his hair and it was so intense he could come if she kept touching him –_

Graves woke with a start. He was bathed in sweat, heart racing. It was immediately apparent that someone was very close to him and he looked down to find Queenie curled up on his bare chest, apparently asleep. Panic set in quickly, making his heart beat faster. He became aware that he was naked, but Queenie was still clothed. He could feel the smooth silk of her teddy against his skin. Inwardly cursing, Graves went about sliding out from under her arms. He would have apparated if the sound wasn’t sure to wake her. He'd been afraid that he would pull off his clothes in the night, overheated and not used to sleeping with pajamas on. It was mortifying nonetheless, even more so with the terrific erection he was currently sporting. As he wriggled slowly out of bed, trying very hard not to jostle her, Queenie seemed to sleep on.

At last, Graves managed to get free, grabbing his discarded pajama bottoms from the floor to cover himself. He escaped to the bathroom immediately and ran the shower. Leaning gratefully against the stone wall, he let cool water run over him as it gradually heated up. He wanted to take his shower and leave it at that; he wanted to have control over his body again. But he couldn’t seem to will his erection away and did the only thing he could do.

Masturbation had always filled him with a secret shame. His mother had been a devout Catholic and he had been going to Mass since the womb. The evils of masturbation had not been explicitly stated to him until sometime when he was 13 and his mother had thought he spent too much time in the bath. She’d beaten his knuckles and told him never to touch himself sinfully or he’d be bound for hell. The shame and guilt stayed with him, even after he’d left the church behind. He brushed his hand across the silver cross he still wore under his clothes, the memory of so many guilty confessions fresh in his mind.

So it was with a gut heavy with humiliation that he took his cock in hand and tugged, biting his lip and trying not to groan. He pictured Queenie just a room away, wearing next to nothing and curled up in bed. How he could have kissed her, rolled her over and laid his hands on her waist, how she might have responded with a moan, kissing him back. He could have pulled down the straps of her teddy and kissed her breasts, felt her warm body against him. If Queenie really was his wife, he could wake up like that every morning.

With that thought at the forefront of his mind, Graves came with a stifled moan. His cock pulsed as he slouched heavily against the wall, the now steaming water washing away the evidence of his weakness. As his heart rate returned to normal, Graves cleaned himself thoroughly before he climbed out and shaved with his straight razor, the bathroom still filled with steam. He dressed himself for the day, wishing he could have a better handle on himself.

He emerged to find Queenie thankfully wearing her robe but with her hair still tousled from sleep, and he felt a latent pang of desire at the sight. He swallowed it down quickly and greeted her.

“How’d you sleep?” Queenie asked, too bright for the early hour. A breakfast tray had arrived while he was showering, and Queenie was loading a croissant with jam and butter.

“Fine,” he muttered, hoping that she hadn’t noticed him strip down to nothing in the night.

If she had, Queenie didn’t mention it. Instead, she asked him his plans for the day in regards to Starkweather.

“I’m going to visit the local apothecaries and see what they know about illegal love potions in the area,” he told her, buttering a piece of toast.

“Won’t that seem a bit suspicious? We’re supposed to be on our honeymoon.”

“I was going to tell them –“ he paused, clearing his throat to bite back his embarrassment. “I was going to tell them I need contraceptive herbs. Since we’re on honeymoon.”

Queenie only grinned. “Brilliant! I was going to lie on the beach. Did you see Starkweather’s tan last night? He's definitely a beachgoer. Plus I can nose around, see if anyone’s purchased anything illegal lately.”

“That’s a good idea. But – be careful,” he added gently.

“Don’t worry, hubby,” Queenie said, patting his hand. “I can look after myself.”

 

~~~

 

When Percival had graduated, top of his class and with an impressive job offer from MACUSA, he had actually hoped he might get a word of encouragement from his father. Even at 18 he had foolishly clung to the hope that there was something he could do to earn his father’s pride. He arrived home and was immediately summoned to his father’s study. The man regarded Percival closely, more intently than ever before. He usually looked at his son with a bored disinterest, like he was a fine piece of furniture or an expensive vase. Percival couldn’t help but squirm nervously under the scrutiny.

“You’re 18,” he stated unnecessarily. “Have you had a woman yet?”

Percival turned bright red, immediately giving away the truth even as he struggled to answer.

“That won’t do,” his father said with a sigh. “Your mother is intent on finding you a wife and you must be prepared. You’re a man now, Percival, and you should act like it.”

Percival couldn’t bring himself to answer. Mortified, he looked at the ground, eyes fixed on the design of the Persian rug below his feet.

“I’ll arrange everything,” his father continued. “I’ll collect you after dinner.”

And so dinner commenced with far more anxiety than Percival usually experienced. His father ignored him as usual, and his mother prattled on about the luncheons she had planned and the daughters he was expected to meet and possibly marry.

“You’re an adult now, Percival,” his mother said sternly and Percival flushed scarlet. “You must act like it.”

After the agonizing meal came to an end he sought out his father in his office and was ushered into the hall.

“It’s a normal thing, a natural thing,” Gareth said, gesturing him to take his arm for side-a-long apparition. “All men do it.”

Percival, who had never been so much as hugged by his father, nodded stiffly. They apparated to a dingy street corner lit only by dim streetlights. Gareth led him to a low door, illuminated by a red lantern. Inside, they walked through a shadowy hallway into a sitting room dimly lit by lamps that had been draped in colorful scarves, casting weird shadows on the walls. A plump older woman bustled over, her dress very low-cut indeed and her face painted thickly. She greeted Gareth with a kiss on both cheeks.

“And who is this?” she asked in an unsettling, high-pitched voice.

“My son,” Gareth told her, clapping a hand on Percival’s shoulder.

The woman giggled girlishly, a disturbing contrast to her aged face. She kissed Percival’s cheek too and he inhaled her cloying perfume with the scent of tobacco underneath. She took out her wand and gave it a wave. A bell rang out and the door on the other side of the room opened. A line of women marched out, all shapes and sizes and colors, all in various states of undress. Percival found it hard to look at them.

“Go on, boy,” his father said, leering at the line of women like they were a buffet of desserts to choose from. “Pick whichever you like.”

Percival couldn’t move. His father had already picked the one he liked, a very busty woman with unnaturally red hair. He slipped a hand into her corset and she giggled as if she enjoyed it. Hands sweating, heart beating hard, Percival looked shyly at the women. He would have much preferred to go home and lock himself in his room, but the perfumed woman was at his elbow, stroking his arm.

“Whoever pleases you, dearie,” she murmured and Percival finally pointed mutely to a woman at the end.

She was not the prettiest of the group, but she was wearing more clothing and seemed less made-up; her face had a sort of familiar plainness that reminded him of girls at school. She smiled kindly at him and he looked down at the floor. The woman snapped her fingers and the other women filed out. Gareth seemed to have forgotten about Percival, disappearing through another door with his redheaded woman. The woman Percival had chosen reached out to take his hand and lead him down a dark corridor. She led him inside a plain but tidy little room, then waved her wand to light the lamps and guide him onto the large, squishy bed.

“What’s your name, honey?” She sat next to him.

“Percival,” he managed to say in a small voice.

“I’m Anabelle,” she said, with that sweet smile again. She was older than he had thought, closer to thirty than his own age. “First time? Don’t worry about a thing, honey.”

She took off her dress. She was only wearing bloomers underneath and Percival had never seen breasts before. His classmates had once passed around a book of dirty drawings but he hadn’t been able to look at them for more than a few seconds. Anabelle helped him take off his clothes, since he was clearly not able to do it himself. She rubbed his prick through his drawers and it didn’t take much to coax him to hardness. He kept glancing at her bare breasts, his eyes drawn to their fullness and her thick, hard nipples, and then away again, shame making him wanting to hide. But she had him completely naked in no time and then so was she. When she straddled his hips, Percival closed his eyes tight, clutching the bedsheets with shaking hands. It was all over sooner than he expected when at last Anabelle climbed off as Percival tried to cover himself, cheeks burning as he panted. She summoned water in a basin and he looked away as she cleaned herself. She sat back next to him, damp cloth in hand and Percival allowed her to clean him up.

“We’ve got the whole hour, if you want to go again,” she said softly.

So ten minutes later they did. Percival lasted longer this time, but it was still overwhelming, the image of Anabelle moving steadily above so intensely erotic that Percival had to keep his eyes shut most of the time. Afterwards, Anabelle chatted with him a bit, asking about school and his upcoming job. He managed to answer without stuttering too much and when the hour was up, he sort of wanted to keep talking to her.

She led him back to the anteroom and the perfumed woman she called Mrs. Baxter.

“Your daddy’s still with Charlotte,” Mrs. Baxter informed him. “You’ll have to wait outside. Anabelle has another client and you can’t be hanging around here.”

So Percival stood outside, under the light of the red lantern, wishing he had his apparition license and could get home on his own. At one point he was approached by a very tall older man in a smart top hat.

“How much?” he asked, and Percival only gawked at him.

“I – I don’t –“

“How much, kid?”

Percival continued to stutter until the man grunted and turned away, disappearing into the door below the red lantern. It was agonizing, waiting for his father to emerge. It felt like hours ticked by before he finally did, reeking of booze and sickly perfume.

“You’re a real man now, my boy,” he slurred, slumped against Percival’s shoulder.

They arrived in one piece, despite Percival’s worries that his father would splinch one or both of them. Gareth retired to his sitting room and Percival went immediately to his own part of the house, running a bath despite the late hour. He sat in the steaming water until he was bright pink all over, his fingers and toes white and wrinkled.

His father never mentioned that night again and Percival was glad for it. At least now he knew why his parents treated each other like uninvited party guests, and where his father disappeared to almost every night. And his intense, agonizing desire to gain his father’s approval finally began to wane until it disappeared completely.

 

~~~

 

Graves returned to the hotel that evening with more knowledge that he had expected to glean about local potion trading, both legal and not. The apothecary was a local and eager to chat about anything and everything to tourist Graves. It seemed Starkweather wasn’t brewing the potions himself, as Picquery had predicted, and he had a bag bulging with herbs with which he could brew a dozen contraceptive potions.

Queenie had arrived before him, sitting by the window in just her swimming costume, her hair wrapped in a colorful scarf. She was scribbling intently in a little notebook and greeted Graves with an excited smile.

“Get anything good?” she asked.

Graves recounted everything he had learned from the apothecary, trying not to admire her figure too obviously. When he finished, Queenie excitedly held up her notebook.

“I’ve been writing everything down,” she said with a grin. “I didn’t see Starkweather, but I did see his girlfriend. She seems to think he’s going to marry her, poor dear. Thing is, I overheard him last night thinking about his wife back in Jersey. The prick.”

Graves surveyed her notes, impressed.

“She knows he does something illegal but she isn’t really sure of the details,” Queenie continued. “He’s got a lot of shady friends. Of course she didn’t really tell me any of this, we were just chatting about the weather or whatnot. But I read her loud and clear.”

“This is excellent work, Queenie,” Graves told her and she glowed from the sincerity of his praise.

“You should come with me tomorrow! Jonquil said Starkweather would come sunbathe with her and it would the perfect opportunity to introduce him to you.”

“Perhaps I will,” Graves muttered, although the idea of lying on the beach was not an appealing one.

“I did get a bit burnt, despite the sunblock potion,” she said with a little frown. Her shoulders and chest were indeed slightly red.

“Does it hurt?” Graves asked, concerned.

“A little, yeah.”

“Here.” He motioned for her to stand and took out his wand. He cast a cooling charm on her shoulders and she let out a moan of relief that Graves felt deep in his gut, his groin tightening. She turned around and Graves swallowed thickly at the line of red disappearing into her cleavage. He cast another charm and she sighed softly, opening her eyes to catch his gaze. Graves blushed hotly and turned away. “We’ve got to get ready for dinner. I need to make contact with Starkweather.”

Queenie seemed strangely disappointed but she disappeared into the bathroom to ready herself for the night anyway. Graves paced the sitting room, rubbing his forehead. He was letting his loneliness get the better of him, for sure. Queenie was the only woman he’d been close to in ages, and especially since Grindelwald he was feeling desperate and not himself. He couldn’t allow himself to get distracted if he wanted to do the job at hand, because distractions could get him killed. Or worse, something could happen to Queenie. Starkweather wasn’t known to be violent, but Graves was less certain about whatever thugs he was associating with to run his potion trade.

Graves leaned against the window pane, gazing out at the breathtaking scenery and not really seeing it. He knew he needed to maintain a professional distance from Queenie, but he didn’t want to. He wanted to kiss her and dance with her and go to bed with her like a real couple. He’d told himself again and again he didn’t want or need any of that and it had been true. Until Queenie. Queenie had everything he admired, even envied in other people. She was beautiful, and intelligent, socially at ease, witty, exceptionally kind. She was sexy but wasn’t ashamed of it. Something about that confidence, of sunbathing in a flimsy swimming costume, knowing exactly what the men around her must have been thinking, and enjoying herself anyway. She was beautiful and enjoyed being beautiful. It made him want her even more. But at the moment, she was the one woman he couldn’t have.

 

~~~

 

After the disaster of his engagement ended, Graves did not even attempt to pursue a romantic life. He buried himself in work, the one place where he could be successful and find purpose. His father died some years later from a heart attack, very young for a wizard of his lineage. It was revealed a few weeks after the funeral that he had perished in a known brothel in the Lower East Side. The shame of this being a source of public gossip seemed to hasten Deirdre to an equally early grave and Percival found himself the last Graves in America. He didn’t mind. He sold off the grand house he'd grown up in and bought himself a more modest apartment. Celibacy suited him fine and he kept himself personally isolated from his colleagues, advancing his career with the dogged determination that he saw as his one admirable trait. He told himself romantic relationships or even close friendships were only a distraction that he didn’t need.

He could never have foreseen the consequences, however. Without anyone close to him, no one even batted an eye when Grindelwald stole his face. He was imprisoned for weeks, never knowing what the wizard was doing disguised as him, enduring the taunts and occasional torture, the shame of being defeated so handily. Worst of all, the pain of knowing that no one could tell Grindelwald was an imposter. No one was close enough to him to see a difference, and Percival was presented for the first time with the reality of his loneliness. He had told himself so many times that he was content with his solitary existence that he had come to believe that it was true.

 

~~~

 

The next morning, Graves woke up intertwined with Queenie’s soft, bare limbs yet again. He had managed to keep his pajama bottoms on this time, despite his fears. But he became aware that his chest was bare, Queenie’s hand curled over his heart. He tried to shift imperceptibly, to slip away without waking her like he had before.

Queenie, however, was already awake. She cracked open her gray-green eyes and squinted at him sleepily.

“Morning, honey,” she muttered thickly and it felt like a soft punch in his chest.

“Sorry about… this,” he said, face already red with embarrassment. But she only grinned. She was still curled around him like a cat seeking a pet.

“Don’t worry about it,” she said softly, hand trailing over his bare chest. The soft tickle made his heart race and he needed to escape the warm press of her body before he embarrassed himself further. “You have very interesting dreams.”

“Excuse me.”

He managed to slide out from under the covers and dashed to the bathroom, face on fire, cock stiff and hot against his thigh. He could still feel the warmth of her breath on his skin. Running a hand through his thick, sweat-dampened hair, Graves ran the shower. He wanted to shake himself bodily, maybe give himself a few hard slaps to get his head right. He had always prided himself on his ability to maintain distance from his emotions, to put his work first and foremost and remain level-headed at all times. Queenie made him weak. No, that wasn’t right. He wanted her desperately but he was weak entirely on his own. Avoiding his reflection in the mirror, he jumped into the shower while it was still cold, relishing the sting of icy water.

At breakfast, Queenie seemed more subdued than usual. She usually carried the conversation and Graves was more than happy to listen attentively and make all the relevant noises, but she seemed less perky than usual. Graves hoped she wasn’t coming down with something.

For their day at the beach, Graves donned his white suit and straw hat, thinking with distaste about the sand he was sure to get in his shoes. Queenie wore a sparkly, patterned caftan over her swimming costume, hair daintily tied back with a pink scarf. Graves fiddled with his cuffs, mind consumed with Starkweather and how he would approach him.

“I’ll get Jonquil to introduce us,” Queenie said casually, checking her appearance in the mirror and adjusting her scarf. “She’s a bit lonely, I think. Starved for attention.”

Graves made a grunt of acknowledgement, heart skipping a beat at the thought that Queenie had plucked that thought from his mind. The mental strain of keeping his occlumency shield up at all times was perhaps beginning to wear on him. The thought of Queenie knowing the intensity of his desire for her made his heart race with anxiety. Careful to keep his expression stone-faced, Graves offered her his arm for their walk down to the beach.

It was another clear, bright day and Graves could feel himself begin to sweat in the hot sun. He had always thought he would loathe the tropics and it turned out he was right. Queenie, however, was smiling, the sun full on her face. Graves noticed that her sunbathing yesterday had scattered a few pale freckles on her nose.

She sought out Starkweather and Jonquil almost immediately, waving and calling to her new friend. Starkweather was barefoot in a navy blue swimming costume, a cigarette in one hand as he observed the view.

“Jonquil, this is my husband, Percival,” Queenie said, beaming proudly and stroking his arm.

Graves put on his best friendly expression and stuck out his hand for a shake. Jonquil was far younger than Starkweather’s middle age, slim and boyishly figured, hair cut into a bouncy bob and dyed an unnatural red with what seemed like henna.

“Tolly darling, it’s my friend Queenie I told you about, and her husband,” Jonquil said gently, taking Starkweather’s arm.

Starkweather graciously shook their hands and if Graves didn’t know better, he would think the man wasn’t already familiar with him.

“Nice to meet you,” he said, dark eyes giving Queenie’s figure a lewd once-over before settling on Graves. “Jonky, why don’t you go play in the water.” He flicked his cigarette in the sand.

Jonquil perhaps had been hoping Starkweather would play in the water with her and she looked disappointed. Queenie, however, took her hand.

“Let’s go, the waves aren’t too big today.”

Graves watched the women jog to the water’s edge after Queenie stripped off her caftan. He took off his hat to mop the sweat from his brow with his handkerchief, cursing the hot sun. It was cooler by the water, but not by much.

“So, Percival, what do you do?”

Graves thought Starkweather was being a little too coy with the forced small talk, but he didn’t show it. They chatted idly for a few minutes, eyes trained on the women wading into the ocean, giggling as the waves rolled up to their waists.

“She’s a pretty thing,” Starkweather remarked and Graves maintained a neutral expression. “Very pert. Jonquil’s a bit, well, needy, but witches her age usually are, right?”

“Yes,” Graves agreed passively, hating the man more with every word he spoke.

Starkweather summoned a cigarette from thin air and asked Graves if he’d like one. Graves nodded and allowed him to light it for him with a small, conjured flame.

“Are you here more for business or pleasure?” Graves asked carefully, flicking his cigarette to dislodge the ash. He had never particularly liked smoking, but occasionally the need to blend in socially had required it.

Starkweather gave him a probing look and Graves kept his face perfectly neutral. The other man had already made a vague comment about his work in “trade” and Graves had grown impatient with the meaningless small talk.

“Why not both?” Starkweather said with a grin. The man had an effortless grace about him, a confidence that seemed to emanate from every pore. His skin was golden brown, glowing almost bronze in the blazing sun, his black hair perfectly coiffed.

“You run a good trade in a place like this?” Graves said.

Starkweather shrugged. “Wizards come here with their new brides, they get moody or throw a fit over something or other and these wizards need a quick little fix to smooth things over, you know. They come to me. I help them out.” He was bolder now, banking very hard on the fact that Graves wouldn’t arrest him on the spot. “Witches, they’re fickle,” he said and Graves gave him a tight smile.

“They are. They always find something to complain about.”

Starkweather grinned widely, pleased that Graves and he were on the same page. “Let me tell you, if you need anything to lubricate the gears of marriage, so to speak, I won’t hesitate to help you out.”

“I appreciate that,” Graves said easily, snubbing out his cigarette in the sand. Queenie and Jonquil were heading up the beach, swimming costumes soaked and clinging to their bodies.

“Having fun, Jonky?” Starkweather said, pulling her into a close hug. She giggled and went to kiss him.

“I won’t hug you, I’m all wet,” Queenie said, face pink from the exertion of splashing around.

Graves couldn’t help the way his eyes trailed down her body and he felt his face heat up despite himself. He swore he saw Starkweather do the same thing, arm still looped over Jonquil’s shoulder. Graves felt a prickle of annoyance and then shame, since he had been doing the exact same thing. He leaned in to kiss her anyway, tasting the salt on her mouth and wanting to pull her close despite the water dripping from her suit. He ran a hand over her bare shoulder, gritty with sand, warm from the sun.

“Let’s have lunch in our room,” he said softly.

Starkweather gave him a suggestive leer when he turned to say his goodbyes. The look made him feel slightly dirty, like he had been dragged into Starkweather’s debauchery against his will. Queenie pulled on her caftan and slipped her arm in his.

“We’ll talk more later,” Starkweather called after him and Graves gave him a small wave of acknowledgment.

Back in their room, Queenie excitedly grilled him about everything he talked about with Starkweather while relating all that she had learned from Jonquil.

“She’s worried he’s lost interest,” Queenie said after emerging from the bathroom dressed in a breezy, peach pink dress. “Poor thing. He’ll just keep stringing her along, I expect.”

“You don’t think he used a love potion on her?”

“Nah, just charmed the pants off her. Literally, too.”

Graves filled her in on everything Starkweather had said, more or less. He left out the ruder comments. When he was done, Queenie had a twinkle in her eye.

“I’ve got a great idea,” she said with a grin. “But I’ll tell you after lunch gets here.”

Just then there was a tap on the door. It was their lunch, delivered by a smartly dressed bellhop. Over their lunch of ahi tuna and lomi-lomi, Queenie explained her plan. Graves continued to be impressed with her imagination and talent for deception. And he liked the way her eyes twinkled at the thought of her plan, her cheeks pinking up with excitement. Her enthusiasm was contagious and Graves himself felt a little giddy, which he did not usually feel when thinking about an assignment.

That night, they dressed for dinner as usual. Queenie’s dress was low-cut, bared her shoulders and exposed her sun-speckled skin and the golden tan that had replaced her sunburn.

“Help me with this.” She approached him holding a glittering necklace with half a dozen dangling leaves made of crystal.

Graves stood behind her, brushing aside her golden curls so he could feed the tiny hook into its eye. He could smell her perfume, applied with a light hand so it was only a faint sweetness on her skin. His fingers brushed her neck and he longed to feel the rest of her skin, to take comfort in her warmth. The back of her dress was so low that it nearly reached the small of her back. Graves swallowed thickly.

“Thanks.” Queenie gave him a soft smile as she tweaked his tie. Her nails were painted crimson. The dusky smudges around her eyes made her look seductive, mysterious. Graves knew that he was blushing and he fought to keep his occlumency shield steady.

Down in the ballroom, Queenie seemed to sniff out Starkweather and Jonquil like a bloodhound. Jonquil had saved them seats and waved them over excitedly. Graves trailed behind, hands deep in his pockets. As they settled in, Graves gave Jonquil a curt nod and shot Starkweather a meaningful look. Queenie had launched into a story about a cursed paperweight that had made its way around the Wand Permit Office, causing piles of parchment to catch on fire or all their ink to run. Graves, who usually would have made an effort to smile at her jokes and nod to show he was paying attention, kept his expression as surly as possible barely acknowledging Queenie at all.

Starkweather kept trying to catch his eye, giving him significant looks as Queenie and Jonquil giggled over one of the Wand Permit wizards having a public meltdown over his paperwork being destroyed two days in a row. Graves stabbed his sirloin with a little force than necessary as he cut off a mouthful.

When dessert arrived, Queenie went to take his hand. Graves carefully removed his hand from her grip and put it under the table. He knew Queenie was giving him an annoyed look, but he ignored her.

“Percival, I want to dance.”

He didn’t respond.

“Percival –“

“I heard you,” he responded coldly. He glanced over at her, her gray-green eyes blazing with rage. But she quickly recovered, her expression changing to a charming smile.

“Mr. Starkweather, would you care for a dance?” she said sweetly.

Starkweather glanced at Graves who was moodily glaring at his pineapple upside down cake and then graciously stood up to take her hand. Graves ignored them both as Queenie sauntered passed him, arm in arm with Starkweather. Graves took a long sip of his drink, whiskey straight tonight instead of one of the neon blue cocktails. He glanced up at Jonquil, who was staring sadly at her cake and not eating it. He felt a pang of guilt.

“Would you like to dance?” he said impulsively and her face brightened minutely.

Even while swaying side by side with Jonquil, he kept his eyes trained on Starkweather and Queenie. Jonquil couldn’t seem to keep herself from turning her head towards them, either. When the band finished the song, they made their way back to the table. Queenie was now ignoring Graves, who ordered several more drinks as Queenie laughed and flirted with Starkweather. She giggled girlishly and touched his arm. Graves felt the smallest pang of jealousy and then disgust for being so pathetic. He wasn’t actually married to Queenie and was being completely ridiculous. Still, he hated the way Starkweather looked at her, like he was picking her apart with his eyes. With a sour taste in his mouth, he recalled his father and a line of women he had been expected to choose from.

After a while, Graves took Queenie’s wrist. She turned to frown at him.

“Let’s go,” he said sternly.

“I don’t want to. I’m having fun.”

 _“Let’s go.”_ He didn’t want to pull hard on her wrist, but Queenie pulled back and yelped as if he was actually hurting her. She stood up slowly as if reluctantly and Graves nudged her forward. Starkweather shot him a sly grin and Jonquil was pretending not to look at them. Surrounding tables were tittering lightly and covertly staring as Graves led Queenie to the exit, still holding her wrist. He held her lightly, barely pulling at all, but Queenie was stumbling as though he were jerking her along.

They didn’t speak at all the entire way to their room, Queenie keeping a cold distance from him as the house elf who worked the elevator turned the crank. But, once inside and with the door shut behind them, Queenie burst out laughing. “That was fun! Why didn’t you tell me being an auror would be fun?”

“It isn't always like that,” he said, but he couldn’t keep the small grin of victory from his face. “You were brilliant.”

Queenie actually seemed to be blushing. “You weren’t half bad either,” she said, poking his side with her elbow.

Graves felt very warm indeed and he couldn’t seem to stop the smile from creeping across his face. Queenie was very close. He could smell a hint of her perfume still. Over the night the scent had mellowed, settled on her skin, changed almost imperceptibly.

“Now there’s a rare sight,” she said with a grin in return. “You’re handsome when you smile.”

The heat was crawling up his cheeks. He found it difficult to look at her. He thought dizzily of the many whiskeys he had drunk, cursing how they affected him. “We should… turn in…” he said softly, a lump in his throat making it difficult to speak.

“Get ready for bed, yeah.”

The way she said _bed_ made his head swim. He needed fresh air. He stepped away from her and opened the French doors leading to the balcony. Out in the warm night, Graves shook his head gently. It felt like he was going a bit mad and he didn’t know how much longer he could last without breaking. And what if he did? What if he just kissed her, in private, without anyone watching, letting her know this was a real kiss and he really meant it? Deep down, it wasn’t just because she was his colleague temporarily and he needed to keep a professional distance. It was hard to believe that Queenie would actually want him in any meaningful way. Sure, she flirted with him, that was obvious. But he didn’t just want to kiss her, he wanted more. And Queenie was young, effervescent, lively and outgoing. She’d never want to be tied down to an old sourpuss like him. He had too much baggage. She was better off not taking all that on. Most of all, he feared humiliating himself by being vulnerable, opening up about his feelings, laying his heart bare. It was easier to keep it hidden, locked away, untouchable.

Angry with himself, brooding intensely and still rather drunk, Graves went back inside. He heard the shower turn off and a few minutes later, Queenie emerged, followed by a cloud of steam. Her damp hair was braided and he watched her shed her robe and turn back the covers. She wore a lavender nightie, barely long enough to cover her thighs. Red in the face, Graves hastily hid in the bathroom.

He leaned heavily against the door, heart throbbing. Biting back a soft moan, he slipped a hand into his trousers, fisting his half-hard cock. If he was going to sleep peacefully beside Queenie tonight, he would have to take care of it before bed.

 

 

 

The next morning, Graves found himself alone. And he was half out of his pajama shirt, which was progress of a sort. He rolled over, the smell of Queenie’s perfume still clinging faintly to her pillow enough to make his cock twitch. He sighed deeply, ashamed at how pathetic he could be.

He got up, fixed his shirt and glanced at himself in the mirror above the armoire, frowning at his sleep-tousled hair. The bathroom appeared unoccupied.

“Queenie?” he called softly.

She appeared from the sitting area a moment later, barefoot and robed. _“Percival.”_

Before Graves could think, Queenie had launched herself into his arms. Startled, Graves caught her on instinct. She tried to kiss him and Graves was caught off guard by the sudden press of her mouth against his. “Queenie,” he mumbled, trying to dodge her mouth. “Queenie, what are you doing?”

“I want you,” she muttered thickly, presses kisses all over his face.

It was hard to focus, but Graves’s auror eye noted her flushed cheeks, the glassiness of her expression. She was spelled, he was sure of it. Some kind of love potion. He thought of Starkweather with growing horror.

But Queenie was persistent. Even as he tried to extract himself from her, she kept at him, hands wandering as she nuzzled his throat. Dressed in only his pajamas, his cock half-hard from sleep, Graves was feeling extremely warm himself.

“Queenie,” he said, trying for a calming tone. “You’ve been spelled. You don’t want this.”

“Yes, I do.” Her soft hand had found his cock, thick against his thigh. Graves let out a strangled groan, unable to help himself. He was backed up against the wall and couldn’t escape her hand, now rubbing insistently. Queen shook off her robe and pressed up against him, clad in only her tiny lavender nightie, one of the thin straps fallen off her freckled shoulder. It was all so intense that Graves had to shut his eyes.

“Fuck me,” Queenie mumbled, licking his throat. _“Please.”_

He wanted to so badly. Bizarrely, he thought of his father. If he was anything like him, Graves would not even hesitate. But he wasn’t his father. He was better than that.

Wordlessly, Graves summoned his wand from the bedside table. He really didn’t want to do this, but if Queenie didn’t stop rubbing his cock through his pajamas, he would thoroughly humiliate himself.

_“Stupefy.”_

He had endeavored to soften the spell while casting it and instead of being thrown backwards, Queenie merely collapsed, unconscious, in his arms. He quickly scooped her up and laid her carefully on the bed. The movement had rucked up her nightie, exposing her pale legs and miniscule undergarments. Mortified, Graves daintily pulled her nightie down to preserve her modesty. Thinking better of it, he pulled the sheet up to her neck.

Unfortunately, his cock was still almost painfully hard. But he ignored it; his priority was to find how Starkweather had cursed Queenie and how he could reverse it. It was easy to spot the culprit: on the small table by the door was an open envelope. Cautiously, Graves summoned a cloth to cover his mouth and nose. He was sure that Queenie wouldn’t just ingest an unknown substance. His instincts proved to be correct as he examined the envelope without touching it. It was addressed to Queenie Graves and there was a softly glittering powder dusted over the envelope, the table and the floor. It must have exploded outward when Queenie opened it.

Graves dressed himself hastily, hand shaking slightly as he tucked his traitorously hard cock into his trousers, pausing to carefully adjust himself. He gathered a sample of the suspicious substance and used the portable potions setup he had packed to begin examining it. It was a clever construction. He discovered mistletoe, deerstongue, vervain, eyebright. Not unusual for a lust potion, but the powdered form was unique. And yarrow, which was odd. Reserve engineering an antidote was easy enough and he brewed it as quickly as he could without compromising the effectiveness, opening the windows to let out the fumes.

When the antidote was ready, he decanted it into a vial and approached Queenie’s side. She was still unconscious, her face still flushed pink, her mouth parted slightly as though she were readying for a kiss. Gently as he could, Graves propped her up, holding her in a sitting position so he could pour the potion into her mouth and coax it down her throat without choking her. Then he pointed his wand at her chest and muttered, _“Ennervate.”_

Queenie blinked awake, shaking her head as if clearing cobwebs.

“How do you feel?” Graves asked anxiously.

“A bit groggy,” she said rubbing her head. Then, as though the memory was slowly dawning on her, her eyes widened and her hand slowly went to her mouth. _“Mercy Lewis.”_

“You were spelled,” Graves said hastily, hoping to assuage her embarrassment. “It was the envelope, a lust potion that Starkweather somehow made into a powder…”

Queenie let out a startled laugh and then threw back her head and laughed even louder. Graves stared at her, confused.

“Mercy Lewis, I was _all over you,_ like a cat in heat!”

She kept laughing as Graves tried to see the humor in the situation. Perhaps she was so amused at the thought of ever being all over him. That was not a very comical idea to Graves.

“But you were quite the gentleman,” she said once she was done laughing and Graves frowned. Practically coming in his pants when she touched him did not seem especially gentlemanly to him.

“I need to find Starkweather’s supplier,” Graves said firmly. “I don’t think he brewed that potion himself.”

“Did you say a powder?” Queenie bounded out of bed, apparently unconcerned that she was still only in her nightie. Graves carefully averted his eyes. Queenie was over at the small potions lab, peering through the magnifying glass held in place so Graves could examine the potion.

“How fascinating,” Queenie said with interest.

“I’m going to find Starkweather,” he announced.

“Already?”

“He could have killed you,” he said with more heat than he meant.

“Lucky he didn’t, then,” Queenie said, looking as though she hadn’t considered it.

“I’ll see you later,” he said stiffly and left before she could respond.

Graves only paused for breath when he reached the lobby. He wondered briefly if he could stop himself from cursing Starkweather the moment he saw him. Or maybe he wouldn’t even bother with wands; he wanted to strangle the man with his bare hands. The thought was ugly and brutish and Graves was quickly ashamed of himself. He straightened his tie, smoothed his hair, and composed himself.

He sought out Starkweather in the various areas of the hotel, finding him at last in the tea room reading the paper with a cigar in hand, the remains of his breakfast before him. He spotted Graves striding toward him and rose to greet him.

“Percival, chap, I’d have thought you’d still be in bed.” A wolfish grin spread across his face and Graves forced himself to smile back.

“Queenie’s quite exhausted,” he said. “She’s gone back to sleep.”

Starkweather barked with laughter. “I bet she is, I bet she is. I take it you’re satisfied with my little gift?”

“I found the powdered form to be quite extraordinary,” Graves said, sitting across from Starkweather as he reclaimed his seat. “Is that your invention?”

“I wish I could say it was,” Starkweather said. “I have a trustworthy supplier.”

“The effects are very… potent. I imagine you make quite a pretty penny in sales.”

“I do rather well,” Starkweather said with a smug grin.

“Ever think of expanding your business?”

Starkweather regarded him a moment before responding, pausing to take a long drag from his cigar and exhaling a plume of smoke from his nostrils. The smoke curled up and formed itself into a gray, transparent dragon before dissolving into nothing. “What are you proposing?”

Graves shrugged, affecting a cool, almost uninterested demeanor. “There are hundreds of honeymoon resorts,” he said carefully. “I have a number of colleagues who would kill for a vacation. And a chance to make a little extra money.”

Starkweather appeared to consider it, but Graves could see the gears turning in his head. The man was practically licking his lips in anticipation.

“Of course I would have to meet this supplier of yours,” Graves said. “Make sure they are up to the demand.”

The end of Starkweather’s cigar glowed and smoldered as the men sat in silence. Finally, Starkweather spoke. “I’ll have a talk with them,” he said evenly, tapping his cigar to dislodge the ash.

Graves nodded, not wanting to push the issue and make Starkweather suspicious. “I do hope things will work out,” he said. “I look forward to doing business with you.”

Starkweather grinned and held out his hand. Graves shook it firmly, expression tight to hide his desire to reach out and smash that long, aquiline nose.

When Graves returned to the room, Queenie was dressed and hunched over the potions lab, hair tied back with a scarf.

“So it was a blessing in disguise,” Queenie said brightly after Graves told her about his meeting with Starkweather.

Graves frowned deeply. He couldn’t seem to shake the horror of knowing she had been poisoned and how hotly she had inflamed his passions, even in an enchanted state.

“I think I figured it out,” she said, indicating the mess of vials and crushed herbs she had amassed. “There’s a clever desiccating charm, which turns the potion into a powder. And yarrow, that keeps it stable. It’s quite an inventive idea.”

“That’s rather impressive,” Graves said, examining her scribbled notes.

“I thought so! Whoever thought of the idea must be very talented.”

“I meant you, for figuring it out.”

Queenie was blushing again, waving her hand dismissively. “It wasn’t that hard.”

“Still.”

Her cheeks were pink and she looked a bit embarrassed yet pleased. Graves looked down at his shoes, his treacherous memory vividly recalling the press of her body against his as she fondled his cock.

“Do you want lunch?” he asked hastily, eager to break the tension.

Queenie’s eyes lit up. “Yes please!”

 

 

 

The next time Graves saw Starkweather, he was loitering outside the hotel lobby smoking a cigarette, cutting a figure of dashing elegance. He caught Graves’s eye and gave him a wide grin.

“Have you given anymore thought to my proposal?” Graves said at once.

Starkweather looked amused. He offered Graves a cigarette before answering. “My supplier is interested in meeting you,” he said at last, after Graves had accepted the light from the end of his wand.

“That’s encouraging.”

“Well, let’s get going.”

“What, now?”

“No time like the present, my friend.” Starkweather held out his arm.

Graves snubbed out his cigarette and gripped the offered forearm. There was darkness and the familiar squeezing sensation as Starkweather disapparated. The darkness cleared and Graves blinked against the sunlight. They were still in Hawaii: the sun was still bright, the air hot. But he didn’t recognize their surroundings, a patch of low shrubs and small palms with pastures and fields leading to a vast mountain in the distance. There was a low bungalow with a thatched roof, surrounded by tall palms. Graves followed Starkweather to the door, glancing around, trying to memorize his surroundings. Starkweather tapped lightly on the door with his wand and after a few moments it creaked open.

It was dark inside and the strong smell reminded Graves of the potions classroom at Ilvermorny. The fire burning in the hearth made the warm air even hotter and stuffier. Bunches of herbs hung from the ceiling beams and only a few candles burned dimly in the corners.

“Ptolemy.”

There came a voice from the gloom and out of the shadows emerged the small figure of a woman. She was native, black hair covering her bare chest, a colorful pa’u around her waist. She was short and as she stepped into the light, Graves noticed she was far younger than he had imagined.

“Iolana, this is Percival Graves,” Starkweather said, his voice hushed as though his surroundings compelled him to be quiet.

Graves opened his mouth to speak, but it suddenly felt impossible. His throat seemed to have seized up, his limbs frozen and he could only stare as Iolana advanced slowly. He felt himself dropping to his knees, fear making his heart race. This was too horribly familiar. He struggled to breath. Iolana’s hands were like small fires on his skin when her fingers touched the sides of his face. Graves felt his chest constrict.

She wanted in. He could feel it, her mind pressing in on him. He fought briefly but she was powerful and he was unprepared, his hands hanging uselessly at his sides, his limbs suddenly too weak to move, his wand tucked in his waistcoat, far out of reach.

He’d been here before. On his knees, ghostly fingers plunging into his mind like it was a ball of dough, kneading it into a painful lump. The fear was all he could feel at first. But he knew what she was after; he’d been trained for this. He had to distract himself, push the real purpose of his mission away. He thought of Queenie, and while it was all he could do to concentrate on her, his desire welled painfully to the surface. He thought of her breasts, the soft puff of her laughter on his skin, the glittering intelligence in her gaze. All the things he wouldn’t allow himself to dwell on in her presence. How desperately he wanted her to care for him with even a fraction of his feelings for her. Carefully, like the ocean ebbing towards high tide, the burning tendrils withdrew from his mind.

Graves felt his knees give and he fell forward, barely catching himself on trembling arms. His body dripped in sweat and for a moment he could only pant.

“He is trustworthy,” said the soft voice above him.

“You don’t go easy, do you,” said Starkweather, his voice sounding both amused and slightly nervous.

“One can never be too careful.”

After a long moment to catch his breath, Graves struggled to his feet. Hands still shaking, he dug around in his jacket pocket for his handkerchief to wipe his damp brow. Iolana had lit a few more candles, the shivery light illuminating her young face and dark eyes. She smirked at him, revealing dimples in her cheeks.

“It’s nice to meet you too,” Graves mumbled, trying to compose himself, brushing back a few loose strands of hair.

“You would like access to my potions,” she said carefully, withdrawing a wand from nowhere and summoning a small cauldron from a shadowy corner. “My love potions in particular.”

“This operation Starkweather is running can be expanded. I have many –“

“Colleagues that would like a vacation, yes. Ptolemy has been very good to me so far.”

“How much of the profits are yours?”

“50/50 is all I will accept. And that is in addition to providing me with ingredients that I cannot grow myself.”

As they talked, Iolana had spelled a mortar and pestle to grind an herb she was tearing up into a powder. She lit a fire under the cauldron and filled it with summoned water from her wand. Starkweather observed their interaction silently, lighting another cigarette and filling the cramped room with more smoke. Feeling slightly dizzy, Graves shrugged off his jacket and pulled at the buttons on his throat, loosening his tie enough to release the pressure.

“I am willing to honor that arrangement,” he said. “Your potions are very unique and powerful.”

Iolana’s smile grew wider. She waved her wand and the pestle dropped to the table, allowing the mortar to float up and tip the ground herb into the cauldron and its simmering water. “How gracious of you,” she said. “But greater demand will put more of a strain on my end.”

“I know many talented potion brewers.”

Her soft smile disappeared and her eyes grew cold. “None of whom will come anywhere near my recipes,” she said flatly and the mortar dropped back onto the table with a startling thud.

“I understand, you must be very protective –“

“I will be the only person to brew these potions and that is final.”

Graves did not respond at first, sparing the smallest glance at Starkweather, who only shrugged. “Very well. We can expand gradually. One or two more honeymoon resorts. Starkweather can remain your contact here and I can work through him if you prefer.”

Iolana looked carefully at him, her gaze probing. She waved her wand widdershins over the cauldron, stirring the bubbling potion within. “Would you like something for the road, Mr. Graves? I think your little wife will be missing you.”

Graves could feel the flush rising in his cheeks, but he forced himself not to look away.

Iolana laughed brightly and with a flick of her wand summoned a small glass vial. “Here,” she said, slipping it into his palm. “Take it as a token of our business arrangement.”

“So that is a yes, then?”

Iolana did not answer, but her small amused smile remained.

Graves tucked the vial into his trouser pocket and turned to Starkweather. “Anything else?”

Starkweather shared a meaningful look with Iolana before answering. “I’ll meet you outside, Graves.”

With a sigh, Graves complied. He was sweating fiercely in the hot room and he longed for fresh air. Outside, the sun seemed more brutal than usual. He squinted up at the sky and its bright, fluffy clouds. The headache that had bloomed in his temples as their conversation wore on intensified. He tugged harder at his tie, loosening it completely. He should have felt elated, but his chest was still tight, his heart fluttering. He checked his pocket watch; barely an hour had passed since they had left the resort. It felt like much longer. His hand shook as he wiped the sweat from his brow, desperate for Starkweather to finish his business.

After what felt like hours, the man finally emerged, looking cool and calm as ever. “You look like you need a drink, friend,” he said casually.

“I want something upfront,” he said with more composure than he felt. “I need something to entice potential sellers.”

“Iolana needs to replenish –“

“You must have plenty of product.”

Starkweather frowned slightly, thumb hooking in his trouser pocket.

“I’ll pay you what any customer would.”

“Very well. Let’s go.” Starkweather apparated them both to his room. Behind a false panel in the wall he kept a cache of vials and satchels. Graves selected one of each and paid Starkweather the gold he requested. Graves was sure he was inflating the prices slightly, but he didn’t care. He had what he needed. With their business concluded, Graves left him after a firm handshake.

Alone in the elevator, Graves leaned heavily against the wall. The struggle to maintain his composure had grown almost too much to bear. He felt weak, fevered almost, like he’d come down with a sudden flu. By the time he made it back to his room, his legs were shaking and he could hardly walk without stumbling. He deposited the bag of potions on the breakfast table and collapsed on the bed, clothes disheveled but he was too out of sorts to change them. He was alone; Queenie must have gone to the beach again. Even in the cool of their room, he was sweating through his shirt. He could feel strands of hair stick to his forehead, but all the strength had been sapped out of him. He couldn’t keep his eyes open.

_The blackness choked him. He couldn’t breathe. But when there was light, there was pain. He tried not to scream because screaming hurt as much as anything else but he couldn’t stop it. The cold darkness ran over his mouth like water and the lack of oxygen burned his lungs and the darkness crept over his eyes…_

_“Now, now director. Don’t fall asleep on me yet.”_

_More pain. Blinding pain. The agony was in his brain, white hot spikes scrambling his thoughts like an egg. He wanted to cry. He felt tears burning his eyes but they didn’t fall. He thought of his young self falling in the nursery, how he had cried uselessly for his mother._

_“Smart kid. You know that tears won’t do you any good.”_

_The pain was too much. It consumed every thought. He opened his mouth –_

“Percival! Percival, wake up!”

Someone was shaking him. Graves could register her voice, but his heart was pounding. Someone had been shouting and he realized slowly that it was him. Queenie’s face floated before him, her eyes shining with concern.

“You were having a nightmare,” she said in a small voice and Graves shook his head, trying to clear the remnants of fear that made his chest hurt.

“I’m fine,” he muttered, but he was still shaking, coated in sweat. Queenie did not look convinced. “I just need –“

He stumbled to his feet and made it to the bathroom, holding onto the wall to keep himself steady. His clothes felt like they were strangling him. He struggled to undress down to his union suit shorts and undershirt. The chain of his silver crucifix dangled into the sink as he leaned over to splash his face and neck with cold water. He felt slightly better after the coolness ran down his back and chest and he had swallowed a few gulps. The nightmares that had plagued him for weeks after his captivity had faded over time, but he should have known they wouldn’t disappear completely. Still, humiliation burned in the pit of his stomach, hating the fact that Queenie had seen him so weak and vulnerable, shaking like a newborn kitten.

Graves took fifteen minutes to compose himself and then dried his clothes to the best of his ability before redressing himself. His hair was a mess, disheveled and falling over his eyes, but he didn’t have it in him to fix it. He emerged to find Queenie pacing and nervously wringing her hands.

“I’m fine,” he said at once, hoping he sounded believable.

Her expression indicated that he did not but he quickly sought to distract her from his personal wellbeing.

“I met with Starkweather’s supplier and got my hands on a good amount of product. It’s more than enough to arrest him.”

Queenie still looked concerned. “I didn’t know.”

Graves avoided her eye, keeping his gaze glued to the wall behind her head. “I told you –“

“You were hurting so much and I –“

“It was just a nightmare,” he said, tone clipped.

“Percival.” She said his name so softly that he found he couldn’t respond. Then she was at his side, hand wrapping around his bare wrist.

“Queenie –“

He found it difficult to speak, his throat closing up. The touch of her hand was a sudden and intense blow to his carefully erected façade and he could feel it cracking. Before he could push her away, she stepped closer, wrapping her arms around his neck. He found himself engulfed in a hug and he had to wonder the last time anyone had hugged him, his mind coming up blank. Her slim arms tugged him closer and he reached for her sides, intending to push her away. But he couldn’t. As if of their own accord, his arms pulled her closer and he pushed his face into the golden cloud of her hair. She smelled faintly of the ocean, of the orchids and birds of paradise that grew around the path to the beach. He felt the pain as fresh as when he first felt it, not the psychical sensation of crucio or the pangs of starvation, but the loneliness and the cold. The emptiness of his life held up and thrown into sharp relief. Grindelwald had not just invaded his mind with magic, but had stripped him of the security of purpose he had comforted himself with. He had his career and that was all he needed. No friends, no lovers, nothing but his job.

The feel of Queenie’s arms around him was like the curtains being pulled aside, flooding him with light and warmth. It was nice, but he couldn’t hide in the darkness any longer. Tears prickled his eyes and he fought desperately to keep them from falling. He wanted to keep hugging her forever. But he couldn’t. Giving her waist a squeeze, he then stepped back, pulling himself from the agonizing sweetness of her embrace. It was cold being away from her but he needed the distance. He rubbed his burning eyes with the heel of his hand and smoothed his hair as best he could. A tentative hand settled on his shoulder but he shrugged it off.

“I need to get in touch with MACUSA,” he said sharply, proud of himself for keeping his voice so steady. “It’s time we finish this nonsense.”

He didn’t dare look at Queenie’s face. He was sure that anything he saw there would break him for good.

 

 

 

 

After he sent an owl to Picquery, Graves went for a walk, unable to trust himself to be alone with Queenie. Even if she acted normally and didn’t try to hug him or touch his hand, he would probably break down and start bawling like a baby. With his hands deep in his pockets, Graves hoped that his well-practiced surly expression would keep people away.

He had been doing just fine. He had dealt with Grindelwald and his captivity the same way he had dealt with everything else in his life: by pushing it away, refusing to think about it, refusing to let his emotions affect him. This strategy had suited him fine his whole life. Queenie’s mere presence made it impossible to keep his carefully constructed composure in place. He was angry, but not at her. He was furious at himself for proving to be so weak and pathetic after all this time.

He encountered a rock in his path and viciously kicked it. The rock went skittering away and Graves didn’t feel any better. His shoe was scuffed now and his toe throbbed dully. All he wanted was to be home in his quiet, empty apartment where he could brood in the darkness as usual. He didn’t think he could spend another night sleeping beside Queenie and keep it innocent.

Scowling at the breathtaking sunset, Graves knew he couldn’t stay out on the beach all night. He turned his back on the stunning view and headed back to the hotel, its windows glowing like jewels in the fading light.

With his mind elsewhere, Graves really wasn’t paying attention to his surroundings the way he should have been. His first lesson at the academy had been constant vigilance and he had excelled in all avenues of his life. But Grindelwald had still taken him by surprise. And now Starkweather did too.

Graves was in the deserted hallway leading to his room when he felt the unmistakable press of a wand tip against his neck.

“Don’t move an inch,” Starkweather muttered in his ear.

Dumbfounded, Graves complied. He had no other choice but to stand there, hands in his pockets, while Starkweather reached into his jacket to extract his wand from where it was tucked into his waistcoat. Once he was thoroughly disarmed, Starkweather took his arm and nudged him forward, wand pressing against the small of his back.

“Move along now, Director Graves. You really should be more careful with your owls.”

Inwardly cursing himself, Graves let Starkweather push him forward down the hall. He had put a cautionary concealment charm on his message to Picquery, but Starkweather could have easily broken it if he knew it was there. It was foolish of him to trust in such little security.

“You were so close, too,” Starkweather muttered in his ear. “But not nearly close enough.”

They were passing the room where Graves and Queenie were staying. It was his only shot. He could only hope that Queenie was actually there.

 _Starkweather knows. He’s got me at wandpoint. Get help._ He thought as loudly as he could, breaking down every mental barrier and occlumency shield he had so carefully maintained. His heart pounded in his chest but he kept his expression completely impassive. When they reached Starkweather’s room, he pushed him inside, wand pointing directly at his face.

Jonquil was there, reclining on the loveseat with a magazine. She leapt up when the two men entered, looking alarmed. “Tolly, what –“

“Don’t sweat it, doll,” Starkweather said sharply.

“But –“

“I said shut up, Jonky. Just sit there and keep your pretty little mouth closed.”

Jonquil gaped at him, her face flushing in reaction to Starkweather’s harsh tone. Slowly she sat back on the loveseat as Starkweather fumbled in his pocket for something.

“You won’t be getting out of this one, Graves,” he said sharply, a cruel smile spreading across his face. He pulled out a gleaming bronze medallion and pressed his thumb into its center. “Maybe once I’ve dealt with you I’ll pay Queenie a little visit. I’ve got a few potions that I’ve been dying to try out on her.”

Graves felt rage boil in his chest, threatening to spill out. He tried to hold his composure, his jaw clenching as he ground his teeth roughly. Starkweather laughed, a harsh, vicious bark. There was a distortion of air and Iolana appeared beside him.

“You should have read him better, don’t you think?” he said, not taking his eyes off him. Jonquil gaped at the newest arrival.

“Everyone makes mistakes,” Iolana said icily. She regarded Graves with a piercing gaze.

“What should we do with him?” Starkweather asked her, tongue darting out to swipe his lower lip.

“I’d like to break him,” Iolana said calmly.

Graves was prepared for her this time. But his preparation could only do so much. He was on his knees easily and then her fingers forced themselves into his mind. She wasn’t holding back now and the pain was overwhelming. He screamed despite himself. It felt like his brain was being boiled. If he opened his eyes, he was sure he’d see Grindelwald grinning back at him. Desperately, foolishly, he thought of Queenie.

Iolana jerked back, her control slipping.

“Ptolemy, he –“

There was a crash as the door flew open. Surprised, Starkweather whipped around but he wasn’t quick enough for Queenie’s spell.

_“Expelliarmus!”_

Starkweather’s wand flew through the air and Graves felt Iolana let go of his mind completely as she turned to Queenie, dressed for dinner, framed in the doorway like an avenging angel. Graves tried to call out her name, but he couldn’t make his throat work.

 _“Stupefy!”_ she cried, but Iolana dodged the spell. The blast of light hit a vase full of purple orchids and it exploded in a cloud of porcelain.

Jonquil was screaming, the sound ringing in his ears as he lunged at Starkweather. Without his wand, he could only use his fists, landing a punch hard on the other man’s jaw. Starkweather grunted in pain, hand going for Graves’s throat. From the corner of his eye, Graves register the dark form of Iolana launching herself at Queenie. Fear gripped his heart, but at the same time he felt his fingers close around his own wand, hidden in Starkweather’s jacket. With a blast of sparks, he wrenched it free and Starkweather howled in pain as the heat licked the side of his face. Leaving him on the floor, Graves stumbled to his feet.

Queenie and Iolana were entangled in a mess of limbs on the floor. Iolana was on top of her, hands closing around her throat as Queenie tried to scratch at her eyes.

_“Stupefy!”_

Iolana crumbled, stunned. Queenie pushed her off, coughing and wheezing as she tried to catch her breath.

“I told you get help,” Graves said desperately, helping to her feet.

“I did,” she cried. “But I couldn’t just wait for them to get here!”

“I –“

_“Percival!”_

Queenie screamed his name but Graves didn’t know why, not at first. He felt a pressure in his side, a hot punch, and then pain so sharp that he couldn’t breathe. He fell to his knees, Queenie gripping his arms to keep his upright. Dimly, he saw Starkweather above him, a long knife in one hand, its blade shining with blood.

Graves’s wand tumbled from his fingers. Queenie’s had been knocked out of her hand in her tussle with Iolana. The fear that gripped him was so intense that it blocked out everything else.

_“Stupefy!”_

Starkweather collapsed in a heap. Graves had no idea what happened and he looked around wildly, thinking the cavalry must have arrived.

“Mercy Lewis, Jonquil,” Queenie muttered and indeed, Jonquil stood before them, her face bright red with rage, wand raised.

“Fuck you, Ptolemy!” she spat viciously at Starkweather’s unconscious form. “I’m not your _dog.”_

Graves didn’t have it in him to be amazed. The pain in his side was spreading rapidly and he couldn’t stay on his knees any longer. Queenie supported his head as he flopped on the floor. She pressed his hand against the stab wound, her face gone white. Graves moaned in pain and Queenie patted his face.

“It’s OK, you’ll be OK,” she said fretfully, summoning her wand. _“Sarcio._ Oh no. _Sarcio!_ Damn it!”

Graves felt curiously cold. It felt like a great effort to lift his hand, but the sight of Queenie’s pale face, stricken with distress, was too much to bear. He cupped her cheek and tried to speak, but no sound came out.

“I can’t –“ her voice broke and Graves’s vision darkened at the edges.

He sensed a great commotion around him, voices yelling, the bright pops of spells firing. He didn’t dare look away from Queenie, wishing he could stop the fat tear that rolled down her cheek. His hand started to drop and Queenie took it gently, pressing it firmly against her cheek.

“I’m here,” she whispered. “Don’t worry. I’m here.”

Darkness consumed him. It hadn’t occurred to him to worry. Not with Queenie beside him.

 

 

 

The next thing Graves knew, he was waking up. He felt warm and comfortable, swaddled in a soft warmth. But as he pulled farther away from unconsciousness, he became more aware of pain in every limb. It wasn’t overwhelming, but he still groaned in discomfort.

“Easy there, Mr. Graves,” said a gentle voice.

Graves cracked open his eyes. He was in the medical ward of MACUSA, he recognized it right away. He’d spent nearly a week there after Grindelwald’s capture. The healer was familiar too, but he couldn’t recall her name. “What happened?” he mumbled sleepily, trying and failing to sit up.

“You were stabbed,” the healer said simply. “The blade was coated in a substance that didn’t allow the wound to heal with magic so we almost lost you a few times.”

“Oh,” Graves said simply, hand going to his side automatically. The only trace of the wound was a faint tangle of scar tissue and a deep tenderness.

“Now, don’t strain yourself,” the healer said gently, patting his arm. “We’ve only just patched you up.”

_“Percival!”_

The sharp cry came from the other end of the ward. Graves twitched aside the white curtain around his bed and saw Queenie dashing towards him, her yellow curls bouncing.

“Percival, you’re alright! I was so worried. They only just told me.” She was out of breath, stopping at his bedside to carefully take his hand. Her face was creased with concern and he wanted to cup her cheek so badly that his palm itched. Instead, he fisted the bedsheet and forced a small smile.

“Did we get the bad guys?”

Queenie giggled a bit breathlessly and nodded. “All locked up. And thank goodness for Jonquil, huh?”

Graves nodded, relief flooding his chest. “I’ll have to send her flowers,” he said, head tilting back onto the stack of pillows.

“He’s a bit loopy from all the potions,” the healer muttered from the other side of the bed and Graves laughed. Then he frowned.

“You shouldn’t have put yourself in harm’s way,” he said as firmly as he could. “You could have been killed.”

Queenie actually looked a little upset. “Did you really expect me to not do anything? To just leave you to die?”

“I would have been alright,” he said with grimace.

Queenie dropped his hand and leapt to her feet, arms crossed in irritation. “Don’t treat me like I’m useless, Percival,” she cried, voice high and tight with emotion.

Horrified at this turn of events, Graves tried to stand, but his legs were too weak. The healer seemed to have disappeared. “I don’t think you’re useless,” he insisted weakly.

Queenie looked as though she barely contained herself from yelling at him again, her face flushed a delicate pink. Her eyes welled with tears and she turned away, hiding her face from him.

“You were very brave,” he said as earnestly as he could. “You were more than brave. The whole time – you were better than most aurors after years on the job.”

He watched her shoulders begin to shake and it felt like his insides were being carved out.

“It’s just –“ Graves had to pause, swallowing, his chest tight with unfamiliar emotion. “If you got hurt – or worse – because of me, I wouldn’t be able to live with myself.”

Slowly, Queenie turned back around. Her face was shining with tears and Graves felt utterly rotten. But, before he could say anything more, she took his face in her hands and kissed him soundly on the mouth. Caught off guard, Graves did nothing but let her kiss him. She was so warm, so soft, he felt something snap inside him. He had enough strength to pull her closer and he opened his mouth to kiss her deeply. He could taste her tears, feel her heart beating as she pressed herself closer. Graves became intimately aware that he was only wearing his shorts under the bedcovers.

The kiss broke when they both needed to breathe, but Queenie did not pull away completely, and Graves couldn’t help himself. He kissed her mouth again, then her cheek, pressing a soft kiss to every plane of her face.

“Oh, Percival,” she sighed, sitting beside him, arm still around his neck. “Why didn’t you do that before?”

“I don’t know,” he breathed, pressing his face against her neck.

She ran her hand over his face, gentle fingers grazing his cheek. “You’re all mixed up inside,” she said and Graves finally looked into her eyes. He saw only softness. “But isn’t everyone?”

 

 

 

Graves was discharged from the medical ward the next day. Unlike the last time, someone was there to see him home. He told Queenie several times that he was fine, he didn’t need a babysitter, but she was insistent he have someone to make sure he made it home safe. Secretly, he was grateful for her presence.

Or maybe not so secretly. Once they arrived at his barren, depressing apartment, Queenie took his hand. Her smile was soft and inviting. “All those nights in bed and you never tried to touch me,” she said, eyes dancing.

Graves blushed hotly.

“And it wasn’t like I was trying to eavesdrop on your dreams,” she said a bit coyly. “Sometimes I can’t help it.”

His pulse was racing and Queenie stepped into his personal space, arms snaking around his neck. Graves awkwardly cleared his throat a few times before he could answer. “I – I didn’t want to take advantage.”

Queenie giggled, pressing a soft kiss to his mouth. “Am I being clear enough now, honey?”

She kissed him again, her mouth warm and yielding. Graves moaned softly, hands drifting to settle on the curve of her waist. The kiss grew more heated and Graves pulled away, panting. He was flushed, Queenie pressed against him making his head spin. Queenie gave him a little smile and took his hand. He directed her to his bedroom and once inside, felt the anxiety well in his chest.

Queenie only smiled softly, drawing him close so she could unbutton his waistcoat. His hands shook slightly but he wanted to touch her so badly. He found the buttons on the back of her dress and managed to pull them loose just as Queenie stripped him down to his undershirt. She paused in order to step out of her dress and then pull her slip over her head, tossing it aside. She stepped out of her short bloomers and Graves had to swallow against the sudden lump in his throat. She helped him sit on the bed and straddled him easily, still in only her garters and seamed stockings.

“Don’t be nervous,” she said gently, reading his emotions easily.

“Can’t help it,” he muttered, trying not to groan as her thigh rubbed against his erection.

She smiled and leaned down to kiss him. Graves ran his hands up her legs, feeling the silk of her stockings give way to even softer skin. He couldn’t help but think of his only sexual encounter to date and burned with shame. He was sure that Queenie could read every thought in his head but her hands didn’t stop. She only smiled sadly and kissed him deeper.

With a great swell of feeling, Graves squeezed her hips, rolling over so that he could kiss her properly, the way he had been longing to for days. Even longer than that, maybe. He kissed down her chest, pausing to nuzzle her breasts and lick gently at one pink nipple. Queenie giggled and moaned at the same time, fingers combing through his hair. He wanted her so badly it seemed to hurt somewhere deep in his chest. Wantonly, he rolled his hips enough to push his cock against the bedsheets.

“Let’s get you out of those clothes, sweetie,” Queenie muttered, unhooking her own garters as she spoke.

When they were both naked and Graves was inside her, it felt more right than anything else in his life. It was more intense that he could have imagined, looking into her eyes, her body moving beneath him, her hands touching his face. He couldn’t stop muttering her name, leaning down to kiss her lips or her neck. Her hands trailed down his back, nails scraping just enough to make him groan. He felt himself getting close and buried his face in her neck, hips stuttering.

“It’s OK, honey,” she whispered, a warm puff of air on his ear. “Let go.”

And he did. With a strangled groan, Graves felt his orgasm overwhelm him, an intensity that couldn’t be matched with anything he managed on his own. It seemed to crash over him like waves and when it finally subsided he felt dampness on his face. He stayed wrapped around her, the comfort of her warmth and heartbeat too much to give up. She gently petted him, hand stroking his back as he panted into her hair.

Once his head stopped spinning, he rearranged himself so he wasn’t crushing her, but didn’t untangle himself from her arms. Queenie sighed contentedly, nuzzling his neck. He couldn’t help but think that he’d been selfish, taking his pleasure without thinking of her own.

“That was perfect, sugar,” she said softly, kissing his jaw.

Graves hummed, suddenly so tired he couldn’t respond. Instead, he kissed the top of her head as she rested her cheek against his chest, right above his heart.

“Besides, I don’t plan on leaving this bed for a few days at least. I hope you don’t mind?” She peeked up at him, a coy smile on her lips.

Graves couldn’t help but smile back. He didn’t mind at all.


End file.
